He watched her walk. Of nimbus light, of shadow envious, elegant, graceful. By ache and pain, he knew, by smilie and metaphor worn, by years paid in crow's feet and lips dry of words held. More than a quarter century, gone. The best years of their lives, lost. Like cliff pounded into the debris of regret.
There she was, there, walking, as she had always walked, diminutive curve of back, slight forward rotation of pelvis, straw-hued hair brushing delicate white shoulders. There was a quiver of cheek as arms opened, reached. The circle closing, fingers lacing, as lips to water opened, once torn from time, healing, coming together.
She sat across, looking away, hands trembling. Her coffee not touched, a faint smell of cream and sugar rising with the morning. The cacophony of breakfast broke around them as he reached to steady her hands, to know again their touch, to take the measure of skin, bone, time and memory. She stole glances. Her eyes wide, blue as sky, still. And they spoke of things past not spoken, of letters written not read. Sentence by sentence, slowly pealing back layers of darkness; words freed from wanting lips; the breath of light, of day seen, lived, walked.
In places, memory clear. In others, one held the other, kindly, with care, words chosen thoughtfully along the tightrope of reunion. Single steps, each, magnified. Opening the possibility of another, another gesture of touch or word or sometimes just a look. And most blessedly, there was silence too, moments of peaceful coexistence, solemn as vespers among varnished wood and leathered stone.
15 comments:
Most everything I write is first draft and posted as such. Most everything can be translated as 99.9%. This post falls into that 00.1% category. Currently, what is posted is the fourth revision and as I reread it again, still not terribly happy, thoughts of a fifth are not far away. Prose must flow, effortlessly. And in the flowing, writer and reader slip away into pure image and emotion to someplace other. This post is not there. It is closer, each revision a step, but it needs a bit more measuring, a bit more sanding, a bit more something that is just beyond my reach.
Current posting, fifth revision.
Hi, I'm a writer too. I did 7 major revisions and about 22 edits of my novel, 'Lethal Inheritance’.
If you're interested in YA fantasy, you might like to take a look at ch1. You’ll find it at
http://publishersearch.wordpress.com/lethal-inheritance/
Thanks Tahila. Can't wait to take a look. :-)
"vespers"
**sigh**
Such nice language. Thanks, T.
Erin, always a pleasure seeing you stop by. Thanks for the kind word.
Amen, my friend.....a precious woman....that unmistakable walk, that nervous smile. those eyes blue, and the joy in those moments of silent coexistence....amen!
Wes, welcome to DT. You are singing to the choir. Absolutely precious in ways beyond my ability to describe. You tell her I said so. :-)
Trée
I see no need to tell her...she already knows! History speaks only the truth!
I do not believe there is a mirror that has not embraced this woman...an absence of vanity prevents her from seeing the reflection that we so admire!
We are blessed men, my friend!
We are indeed blessed my friend. So I lift a glass and toast what comes not often and sometimes comes not at all. Her beauty is as it always was, inside and out, of smile and touch, by word and thought. There are days I tremble upon her beauty and words are useless to protect or defend my heart, but pray I might to acknowledge the blessing thrice sent my way. She is the very life of me and I breathe by her grace the day bright, a place where dreams walk and birds are as whispers of the eye and of what flutters, heart or feather, I could not say. So lift your glass, or maybe two, for you see what I see and that makes me smile.
Trée
I have not had your good fortune of engaging this woman as my own, may never be afforded that honour. I have gazed upon her for more than two decades under the guise of another. My tongue and lips are scarred, remembrances of words begging to be spoken, but withheld out of respect. Unspoken, yet... thru the vibrations of thought... heard and felt. Barriers removed, lines blurred, words now spoken. A mutual unconditional love known, but now acknowledged and......fate intervenes!
A toast, yes indeed, my friend, a toast...to you, fair maiden!
Heartwarming and lovely, entire, pleasure pure to read, a glow of delight spreading from mind curving wide smile gladdening heart. The piece is exquisite, more on that later, but for now just to say am very glad to have read. Love to you, x
My dear Sunshine, welcome back home. You've been missed. This post was one of those that can break the back of a writer. Five revisions, something I virtually never do, and still the flow seems stilted. My sense in writing is that it is either right straight from the pen or it goes to the circular file. If I had to guess with regard to this post, there was just a little too much thinking going on and my writing suffers when I think, I lose the melody, the rhythm, the poetical. Maybe one day I will take a clean page to this chapter of my life. The view is rich enough to support a lifetime of looking. :-)
Wes, she is poetry and everyone else is prose. I see it in the gracefulness of her walk, in the uniquely feminine lilt of her voice, in the ever changing kaleidoscope of her eyes, so bright, so alive, so filled with the gravity of life. I envy your last nineteen years, years forever gone and I feel as wine condensed to pure sweetness, an intensity born of essence distilled in separation. So each day now seems as three, and each hour, both an eternity and mere seconds, for with and without her, time becomes other than as I know it, as too color and dream, vision and future. She is a place of pure land, unadulterated sunlight. Her waters run clear and fresh, her fruit ripe and swollen, of honeysuckle sweet. And to know her is to know these very words simply pale and my frustration grows with the limits of language to describe that which is known alone someplace beyond.
So nice..
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